prelude for raindrops
by metaphorically-blue
Summary: /8059/ The development of a relationship. /Fill it with Brahms and baseball, if you like./


_So. First Reborn ficcy, on the pairing that made me read it. These two make me so happy, with their crazy and attempts to understand the other and dynamite and rivalry. They really do. However, I am focusing more on characterization than plot, so any attempts to find said plot will fail miserably. _I_ can't even find a plot, so feel warned._

_Also: Spoilers abound, so being caught up is recommended. Rated T for Gokudera being Gokudera. _

_That said, please enjoy.

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prelude for raindrops (in d-flat)

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i.

There is a piano that sits in his apartment.

It's a beautiful instrument – a baby grand, nine and a half feet long, with a mellow tone and sweetly in tune. The keys are ivory, tinged with the yellow of age, and the ebony sharps and flats almost absorb the light. If someone were to sit and run a finger down the keys, hitting perhaps the middle C, the strings would vibrate and shake the dust from the room.

He hasn't played it in a while. It's going out of tune, the sharps a little too sharp, and dust has gathered along the dark cover. The music sits in a stack – not that he looks at it – the pages yellowing like the keys, the notes becoming faded against the graying staff lines.

However, the piano still dominates the room, commanding attention, even when it's shoved in the corner, the bench haphazardly braced against the wall. It wishes to be heard.

He walks into the apartment and ignores it.

ii.

Gokudera is seven years old, and he sits on the piano bench, legs swinging, refusing to let his fingers stretch and reach the keys. The piano teacher – _he's very expensive, don't you realize how much money I pay so that you can learn_ – sighs. This boy is going to be the end of him; there's so much talent that he just doesn't _realize_, and yet he refuses – refuses! the nerve – to play.

The day after the teacher storms out, – "your son simply refuses to learn, sir, simply _refuses_" – Gokudera finds some music in the cabinet by the piano. The handwriting is soft and elegant, and the name on the front is unfamiliar, but the swooping letters seem as if he should know this person, as if they were someone he knew long ago, and only just forgot about.

He doesn't look at the name, but lets his fingers rest on the keys, eyes roving the notes and hands taking cues. The arpeggios and the chords stand out to him; the crescendos and sforzandos echo in his fingertips. Occasionally, he pauses at a new chord or double sharp, but mostly, he plays, and it sounds full, and echoing, and beautiful.

When the new teacher comes later in the afternoon, he stops by the door.

"Germans," he says, nodding matter-of-factly when Gokudera looks up from the music "you simply must play Germans – oh, and Austrians, I suppose. Russians are acceptable, and perhaps some Debussy or Chopin – but absolutely the Germans."

He sits at the piano, and works his fingers. He wants the music to be beautiful again.

iii.

When he first goes to Japan, he's sure he'll hate it. Japanese rolls off his tongue slowly, the syllables coming haltingly and stumbling, refusing to string together into words, and as much as he hates Italy and all it stands for, he hates here more. There, at least, there was the familiar, things like blue skies (the sky is always bluer where you're from) and _palazzos_ and Rossini. Here, there is raw fish and tiny intersections and dissonant chords.

The Tenth changes that. He changes a lot of things, the Tenth, with his smile and his belief that everything will be all right. Normally, Gokudera would swear at whoever tries to convince him that all will be well – but he believes the Tenth.

The strange syllables come out of his mouth easier now, the swift monotone becoming second nature. He doesn't hate Japan.

iv.

He does hate Yamamoto. If it weren't for the Tenth, he wouldn't talk to the boy at all. The baseball freak is so… freakish.

After all, Gokudera is the kind of person who can easily find the trajectory of a bullet shot from a gun at a 45-degree angle from a moving vehicle at 160 kilometers an hour, and he absolutely cannot figure out the baseball freak. Everything about him is illogical and wrong and _doesn't work_, and Gokudera wants nothing more than to lob a stick of dynamite at his face.

(He's scared, because the Tenth likes the baseball freak, likes him and wants him to stay around, because he's something close to normal. The baseball freak can stand there and smile and think everything's a game, because he's an idiot, and Gokudera has no idea what to say or do or think, because he _knows_ its not a game, and he doesn't know how to deal.

And the worst part? When he tries to figure out the freak, it's like the other boy's opaque and dense and far too solid, but when the freak glances at him, its as if he's nothing more than a sheet of glass.)

He absolutely hates the baseball freak.

v.

"I never knew you were a musician."

They are standing in his apartment, glancing at the piano in the corner while waiting for orders from the Tenth. Gokudera isn't sure why, but he knows he absolutely does _not_ want to talk about this with the baseball freak – because it's music, and music – music is special.

"I'm not." A pause. "Anymore."

They stare at the piano.

"I wish I could play music. It's just kinda beautiful, you know?"

"Aa." (He knows.)

vi.

Something that won't be said aloud: when they went into the future and he saw Yamamoto bleeding on the floor from the Phantom Knight, he was worried. Really worried. Sure, when he was talking it was all "the Tenth", but in his head (and how did he get the audacity to even think such things?) "Yamamoto" was running in circles through his thoughts, pushing everything else out.

Another thing: when the baseball freak defeated that stupid Genkishi, with his stupid dog and bird (_really? the hell?_), Gokudera maybe-sort-of was proud of him. Maybe. In a silent, unspoken, mentally repressed way. You know, for not getting the Tenth killed. Yeah.

(What will never see the light of day: He finds that older Yamamoto is kind of – very – attractive-perfect, like a sonata, something major and bright and a little bit haunting – just maybe. So is regular Yamamoto.

…But he isn't going to talk about that.)

vii.

They come back, of course. They always do.

The future is changed now, for the better, they hope. Gokudera decides not to worry too much about it, preferring to maybe-not-really watch Namamori's baseball games and help the Tenth with math homework. There are more important things to think about than parallel universes – like high school exams are coming up, and how Yamamoto and the Tenth are going to fail their math finals without him.

Everyone settles back into the old routine. They get together every once in a while, playing cards – _"_THIS HAND IS EXCELLENT TO THE EXTREME!" – and cracking jokes, and nobody talks about time streams, and the Tenth laughs. Everyone's all right.

(Of course, when the grocer down the street asks where "that nice young man is", Gokudera decides to firmly ignore it, as he has done with the extra clothes strewn around his apartment, the random baseballs that have rolled under the table, and the fact that when they came back in the puff of smoke, Yamamoto was sitting at his kitchen table. Instead, he kicks the baseball freak out, due to his status as a fucking _moron_, and proceeds to get rid of all the unwanted paraphernalia.)

There are some serious moments – like when Kyoko and Ryohei have an argument, with screaming and red faces, about how she is _not_ going to just sit by when 'nii-san and Tsuna are in danger, and everyone but the Tenth tries to walk past them on tiptoe. Or when Bianchi sends him a letter from Italy, informing him that no, he can't avoid this; no, he has to listen; no, he can't just burn up the missive with a cigarette and sweep out the ashes. No one talks to him for a week after that, except for the baseball freak.

But that's not the important part. The important part is that they're home. They're back to being fourteen, and in middle school, and they don't have to worry about parallel worlds and metaphysics and all that shit, because they're _home_.

viii.

Skip a year or two. Fill it with Brahms and baseball, if you like.

High school happens. Calculus happens; baseball tournaments happen; trips to Italy happen. One day he'll be sitting in the metal stands, feeling the steel cold against his legs in their skinny jeans as he waits for that stupid freak to finish up with his stupid practice because its stupidly cold out. Next he'll be wearing a fitted suit, fixing the idiot's tie, fiddling with his box and feeling Uri wind anxiously around his ankles as they wait for the Tenth's orders.

Because there are missions, of course, full of bloodshed and bullets and fear that sits in his mouth and clogs up his throat. It takes more showers to get rid of the smell of dynamite, and he gains more scars that show up white against pale, pale skin. Every time he feels his back against Yamamoto's, he has to swallow that fear, the bitter medicine of experience and guilt. He comes _this_ close to almost saying _don't you dare let me down, baseball freak_ – not out loud, of course, but in his head, to drive the fear out, and it's almost enough.

He doesn't like to think about the missions.

Instead, he thinks about that idiot's stupid baseball team, and the Tenth's attempts to finally ask Kyoko out, and how he's going to be seventeen, and what the hell, that's _old_. (Or young. It's relative, he supposes.)

Life isn't about just the mafia anymore.

ix.

Sometimes, he feels a twinge of weakness, an urge to sit down and stare at the keys and pull out something, simply rest his fingers on the smooth ivory.

One day – the sun had been so warm, and there hadn't been a mission in weeks, and everyone looked so content, even he felt content, and barely even punched Yamamoto when he grinned in that stupid, maddening, kindofsexy way – he even puts his finger down on the middle C. He thinks of how easy it would be, just to let it play, the vibrations shaking the dust out of the air.

He doesn't – but he wonders.

x.

He doesn't know what hits him, but he feels it when it does.

Something has slammed into his stomach – _once_ – then his leg – _twice_ – and he can feel blood seeping across his face before he falls over – _thrice_.

The world starts to spin, smashed together from blood loss. Everything is hazy and off-center, like notes slurring together and chromatic scales and dissonant harmonies, and _fuck, where's the Tenth, what just happened, where's Yamamoto, is that my dynamite, is my ring still here, oh fuck_.

He hears something above him – "Keep going and find Tsuna; I'll stay here with Hayato" – and is he being called Hayato? He is, Yamamoto is calling him Hayato; he never calls him Hayato unless things are serious so – oh _fuck_. More noise comes in from above, more "Hayato"s and explosions and the world is getting darker at the edges, darker and blurred, as he sees Yamamoto stand in front of him, sword raised.

"What the fuck's going on? Why aren't you with the Tenth?"

Yamamoto doesn't start much, just a little tremor in the shoulder that Gokudera knows to look for. He doesn't turn around, deflecting gunfire with seemingly lazy flicks of the wrist, waiting to lunge forward as he talks – "You got shot, Hayato." His voice is a little too calm, and then Gokudera realizes what he said (_you got shot, Hayato_). "I wasn't going to leave you behind."

He's failed the Tenth. He can't protect him – he's shot, and now that he realizes it, the blurring of the world should have clued him in, _it's blood loss, stupid_ – he's a failure, and if a few miserable hitmen can catch him off his guard, he shouldn't be allowed to live.

He must have spoken aloud, because Yamamoto comes back into his field of vision, kneeling over him with blood on his shirt, and says, "Don't think that. Don't you dare die on me, Hayato –"

His ring goes out.

xi.

There's something white above him – a ceiling, maybe. He hears a beeping noise, low and persistent. He blinks again, and begins to groan as the pain in his stomach shoots up through his spine.

"Gokudera-kun!"

It's the Tenth – the Tenth, and he looks tired, weary, but fine, with that worried little smile he gets whenever one of his guardians is hurt (and that's _him_ this time, not Ryohei or Lambo – _him_).

"We were getting worried about you; you were asleep such a long time, you see, but the doctor said you should be fine in a few weeks." The Tenth smiles now, eyes turning upwards as the grin spreads across his face. "You know, it was really good that Yamamoto was there with you, because otherwise you probably would've died."

He tries to talk – _really? The baseball freak?_ – but his throat is too dry, and all he can manage is a groan (and really, is it that surprising that it was Yamamoto?).

"Don't talk, it'll make your throat worse." The Tenth hovers over him, fretting and wringing his hands. "The doctor says you'll have to rest a while, not move around so much. Yamamoto says he can help you out. That'll be okay, right?"

He's about to try and talk again – _I'm sorry, Tenth, but I can't deal with – can't, so fuck no_ – but then he looks behind the Tenth, and sees someone in a chair. Yamamoto has fallen asleep, his suit still wrinkled and bloodstained. It doesn't look like he's gone home for a while.

Fucking baseball freak.

He nods, and the Tenth smiles.

xii.

Yamamoto brings him home.

He's quite possibly swearing a lot – he isn't sure, though he may have implied that Yamamoto's mother had had the most interesting relations with an STD-ridden prostitute in Vienna – and he _knows_ he's speaking Italian right now, his voice rising and falling in a way that Japanese doesn't allow. What bugs him is that Yamamoto is still listening to him – still letting him swear and stumble, and its like he doesn't even care that he can't understand a word Gokudera is saying. All he's doing is smiling wearily, as if to say, _yeah, I know, he's a little hard to handle_ to the rest of the world.

The swearing increases exponentially. Gokudera doesn't like being a burden.

The apartment is cold and dark, a lone pot of soup still sitting on the stove. Gokudera doesn't really know which way he's going, but he isn't running into any furniture, as apparently Yamamoto has figured out how to navigate around without letting him become more bruised than he already is. Normally, he would wonder why the baseball freak knows his apartment and swear at him some more, but he is currently too out of it from the last of the painkillers to care, and instead decides to be quiet.

When he feels himself lying on the bed, he closes his eyes, expecting Yamamoto to just leave. Instead, he feels something large and warm next to him, close to perfectly still.

He's suddenly a lot more awake.

"What the hell?"

"Aa, I thought you were asleep there." Yamamoto sounds a little cautious, a little worried, a little tired.

"Why the fuck are you still here?"

A sigh – and what the hell, Yamamoto never sighs, he's too fucking upbeat to sigh – and he can feel the other teen shift. "I'm just worried about you. That's all."

"Worried about me? What, you think I need it? The fuck would you do that for?" He feels the anger rising deep under his breastbone, the heat rising in his face, and its totally irrational but he's still pissed, because _dammit baseball freak, could you make any less sense?_

However, Yamamoto doesn't say anything, doesn't respond, and this douses the anger as quickly as it started. He turns over, ignoring the pain shooting through his abdomen, because why doesn't he say anything?

Yamamoto glances away from his gaze, and he gets it. He understands.

(He had called him "Hayato", and Yamamoto wasn't opaque as he once was.)

He tries to begin – "You are _such_ a _fucking moron_" – but Yamamoto's mouth presses onto his and sucks all the words out. His heartbeat is thudding in his ears, his stomach and shoulder and leg all hurt like hell, and he doesn't give a shit – because Yamamoto is kissing him, warm and soft and scared all at once – and he is kissing him back.

They do break apart, eventually, and he feels his heart pumping, because this is better than dynamite and missions; his face is flushing and despite the fact that he looks like shit, he feels alive. Yamamoto tries to say something now, his normal Japanese monotone cracking and stressing with accents and staccatos, but Gokudera cuts him off with a "shut the fuck up, moron", and kisses him again.

He falls asleep curled up, head resting on Yamamoto's chest. He doesn't dream.

xiii.

He wakes up to sunlight and the smell of coffee.

When he walks out of his room, wincing with pain (_fuck, his abs_), Yamamoto is trying to fix coffee and make eggs, generally making a racket in the kitchen while trying to be quiet about it.

So it really happened.

Yamamoto walks out of the kitchen, a mug of coffee in one hand and a plate of food in the other, to find Gokudera blankly staring at the piano in the corner. He hears the clink of the dishware as it hits the table, and feels the other boy's breath on the back of his neck. Even the single arm that wraps (carefully, Yamamoto knows about all the blue patches of skin hidden by Gokudera's t-shirt) around his waist does little to shock him out of the haze of sleep.

He only comes back to earth when Yamamoto, running his other hand over the keys, accidentally hits the middle C.

Before he knows it, his hand is ghosting over Yamamoto's, almost guiding him along old adagios and sonatas, and when the other boy whispers, "play me something", it's like the final crack in the dam. Everything comes spilling out.

It's some Beethoven, some piece that sits in the cupboard with an elegant name penciled above it, and his fingers find the chords and sharps and decrescendos like he was seven years old again. Despite the wrong notes, the fumbled rhythms, something beautiful echoes in the apartment.

It's here, feeling Yamamoto against his back and the sunlight streaming in, that he finally plays.

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_ fin

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_Reviews are much appreciated._


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